


Hidden and Secret

by Mithen



Category: DCU - Comicverse
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Secret Identity
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-05-07
Updated: 2010-05-07
Packaged: 2017-10-09 08:35:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 930
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/85159
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mithen/pseuds/Mithen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Two moments of a shared double life.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hidden and Secret

"Oh Bruce, you really are _such_ a trendsetter!"

Bruce Wayne raised one elegant eyebrow at the slender blonde, who giggled behind her hand.

"I mean really, _gloves_? That's so..._Victorian!"_

"Well, I think he looks adorable," said an older woman. "And I'm betting that once the photos hit the society pages tomorrow there'll be a run on gloves. Mark my words." A couple of young men near her looked thoughtful.

Clark Kent watched as Bruce continued talking, expounding on the benefits of one make of sailboat over another, his hands sheathed in thin black kidskin gloves closed with tiny pearl buttons at the wrist. Unlike the gauntlets he wore at night, these were delicate, supple, only accentuating the grace of his fingers as he gestured. The opalescent buttons glinted in the light of the ballroom lamps, and Clark blinked back other images, a scene of the day before:

_Joker and Luthor working together; never a good combination. Luthor has given Joker leave to replace the Metropolis fountains with acid: a distraction for Luthor, an end in itself for Joker. Superman is fighting Luthor in his power suit when he sees below him one of the fountains gush in an obscene geyser of green. A child is drenched and falls, her screams battering Clark's ears. He tries to wrench away from Luthor, but Batman is there, stripping off her soaked and smoking clothes with deft hands, wrapping her in his cloak. He hands her to a paramedic and is off running after the Joker. _

Superman finally batters Luthor to the ground; when he finds Batman the Joker is being trussed up, still laughing. There's an acrid scent in the air: burnt rubber, scorched leather. Worse. There are bits of black fabric on the ground. Clark slowly realizes they're Batman's gloves, frayed by acid.

He sees Bruce's hands.

Bruce stepped onto the veranda, flexing his hands slightly and grimacing just a little. "How are they?" said a voice from the shadows, and Bruce smiled.

"You're going to have to do better than that if you want to make me jump. That's my specialty, not yours."

Clark moved closer and took Bruce's hands in his, very gently. "How are they?" he repeated.

"They hurt a bit," Bruce admitted.

Clark removed the gloves finger by finger, his movements careful and meticulous. Carefully he cupped the hands in his own, feeling the shiny smoothness of raw, healing skin under his fingers, the roughness of scarred tissue. He raised the hands to his mouth and touched his lips to the burns, kissing soothing cold into the wounds. He felt some tension leave Bruce's shoulders, heard him sigh. "Thank you," Bruce said as he slipped the gloves back on. He let his hands linger in Clark's, and Clark knew he was the only person Bruce trusted to be delicate and controlled enough to touch his wounds, to kiss his scars.

The thought made him smile all through the rest of the boring party.

**: : :**

Bruce Wayne was sitting next to Clark Kent at some charity event--he knew he shouldn't find it boring, but there was just no denying it. Polite applause, long speeches, champagne. As the last speeches ended, Clark stood up--and wavered on his feet, limping slightly.

"Hey Smallville, what's wrong?" Lois looked concerned.

"Oh," said Clark, "I'd...rather not say. It's a little embarrassing."

Lois threw back her head and laughed. "You probably sprained it playing shuffleboard," she said affectionately, glancing down at Clark's hideous argyle socks. "Argyle, Clark? Good grief."

"But I like argyle," Clark said a bit plaintively. He took another step and winced again, staggering slightly, and Bruce stepped forward as he saw in his mind's eye:

_Something has gone badly wrong on Olympus, and as a result, Superman is currently battling Ares in the skies above Metropolis. Batman is dodging debris and helping with crowd control, unable to keep his eyes for long from the spectacle of gods shaking the sky._

Ares produces some kind of damned magical spike and takes advantage of Superman's distraction as he catches a falling statue; and then Superman is pinioned by his ankles to the Daily Planet globe, the eldritch metal hammered through his tendons and muscles. Ares laughs as Superman strains like a pinned butterfly, his face tight with agony as he pulls against the spike. The god of war bows. "Excuse me while I extract the spoils of battle from your precious city," says the god.

As he turns his back, Superman finally rips the spike from his flesh. He doesn't even cry out as he falls with renewed ferocity upon the god.

The outcome is never in question.

Bruce slipped an arm around Clark, supporting him. "Those shuffleboard injuries can be quite painful, I hear," he said. "Go ahead, Clark, lean on me a little," he said, and if his voice was just a shade lower than usual no one seemed to notice. "No reason to play the martyr."

After a moment, Bruce felt more of Clark's weight settle on him; he'd been hovering very slightly but at Bruce's words he let gravity bear him down a bit more, sighing in relief. Bruce felt Clark's arm, heavy across his shoulders, his back. It was like the weight of Clark's body during sex, he thought involuntarily, but even more intimate, in a way. Bruce was the only person Clark would trust to help bear the burden, the only person strong enough to carry it with him.

Together they limp toward home and rest, bearing their hidden strengths and their secret wounds together.**  
**


End file.
